No, He Can't Read My Poker Face
by HigherMagic
Summary: It's a Masquerade Ball. Normally something Castiel would want to avoid – too many people getting drunk while taking part in the total lack of inhibitions that a mask can give them. The last part, well, Castiel intends to take full advantage of.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** No; He Can't Read My Poker Face  
><strong>Author: <strong>highermagic  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>PairingsCharacters:** Dean/Castiel  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Highschool AU.  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> plotting, masked!boys , slight female bashing?  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>~4,000  
><strong>Summary:<strong>It's a Masquerade Ball. Normally something Castiel would want to avoid – too many people getting drunk while taking part in the total lack of inhibitions that a mask can give them. The last part, well, Castiel intends to take full advantage of.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own. THIS IS ALL _TEXT FROM LAST NIGHT_'S FAULT. Here's the text; 'He will not just "come" out of the closet. He will fall out, 69ing me, with two fingers in his starving asshole, wearing cum splattered lady gaga sunglasses, weeping.' …This was too much fun to write. Too fucking much. *headdesk*

* * *

><p>It's a Masquerade Ball. Normally something Castiel would want to avoid – too many people dressed in, frankly, ridiculous costumes (since he doubts <em>anyone<em> in their year actually understands what 'Masquerade' _is_) and getting drunk while taking part in the total lack of inhibitions that a mask can give them.

The last part, well, Castiel intends to take full advantage of.

He's an observer. He _watches_ people, and one person, in particular, has caught his eye quite nicely. It's a shame the boy thinks he's straight (or, at least, isn't open to being gay), because with a face and a _mouth_ like that, well, his genetics are against him. He's _made_ to be a pretty little bottom, with that smile, so bright and wide and sweet, and his thick, soft-looking brown hair…

Castiel might have a little bit of an obsession. He'd have resigned himself to it if he didn't know that Dean Winchester was looking right back.

'Cause while the boy might be so deep in the closet he's getting frostbite, Castiel is confident that, with the right amount of coaxing, he can get the boy on his knees for him, begging to be fucked. 'Cause he's an _observer._

He knows Dean as soon as he sees him – hell, he imagines he can _smell_ all that repressed sexuality in the air as soon as Dean comes in. The ballroom is large, packed with students, and Dean blends in almost immediately. Or he would if Castiel couldn't hone in on him like a bloodhound.

He's wearing a very debonair kind of 'James Bond' suit, his face covered with what looks like the silver mask from Lady Gaga's 'Poker Face', and Castiel can't help smirking, because if anything, Dean is just helping his cause even further.

How anyone can't tell who he is, with that _mouth_, Castiel will have no idea. But it will only succeed in helping his mission.

His own mask is a simple affair; like the blank dramatic masks used in the school plays sometimes; a swirl of black and white along his face with only holes for his eyes and to breathe through his nose. He stalks through the crowd, bypassing drunk dancing girls who are laughing with their high-pitched squall, his lip wrinkling in disgust behind his mask.

Honestly, he doesn't know _why_ men like girls when they all act like that.

He approaches Dean, already feeling his pulse quicken with anticipation, and taps gently on the man's shoulder. Dean turns around, his eyes the only part of his upper face visible behind the mask, and Castiel watches as they take him in, dark and shadowed behind the mask. His lips part and he licks them slightly – possibly an involuntary reaction, but Castiel doesn't mind.

He takes a step back, smiling though Dean can see him, and gestures with one gloved hand for the boy to join him on the dance floor. Castiel knows there is nothing feminine about his costume – nothing feminine about _him_, really, and so there is no mistaking him for anything but a man. Dean, though, embraces the fact that no one must know who he is – he has no reputation to uphold – because he smiles slightly, and follows. Castiel can see his eyes darting from person to person, making sure they're not being paid an undue amount of attention, but if anyone sees, they don't care, and if they care, they certainly don't know.

He smiles again, glad that he was clever and chose a mask that gives none of his features away – Dean's mouth is distracting, though, and he wants to claim that beautiful man, right in front of him, right now. But he can't. He pulls Dean close, letting him feel the lines of his very masculine body, and doesn't miss how Dean's breath hitches, how his mouth falls a little open, the inside just _taunting_ Castiel.

Dean's hands land on him, possessive, almost, like he's afraid Castiel will just disappear, and Castiel lets their bodies collide, lets Dean bury his face in Castiel's neck – lets the younger man just relax and be taken over by the music. Soon, he will have Dean, loose-limbed and needy enough to follow wherever Castiel leads him, and he can't wait.

Dean must have been to a pre-party, because there's alcohol on his breath, and his entire body is easy and relaxed, letting the beat of whatever-the-hell-this-song-is flow through him, turning him into a creature lacking inhibition and full of lust. Castiel growls when he feels Dean's warm, wet mouth against his pulse.

_Straight my ass,_ he thinks to himself, feels drunk with victory, and that's when he feels fingers nimbly trying to undo the back of his mask.

With a snarl, he shoves Dean off him, fisting a hand in his coat so he doesn't go far. Dean gasps, his eyes wide behind the mask, cheeks slightly flushed, mouth open and panting. "Sneaky little bitch," Castiel growls in a voice that he thinks Dean wouldn't recognize even under normal circumstances – it's not like they've ever said two words to each other.

Dean gasps, licking his lips again, his pupils going blown, and Castiel smirks, tugging the boy closer again. "You will come with me, now," he murmurs, and Dean can only nod, wide-eyed and needy. Castiel can feel his heat, feel the need pouring off of him like a physical thing, and he growls again, tugging on Dean's coat once and fisting a hand in that gorgeous, soft hair, before he lets go, turning around and walking towards one of the side entrances, knowing that he will be followed.

This door leads to a hallway, and Castiel disappears through the first classroom door just as he hears Dean follow him into the hallway. It feels like a chase, like a hunt, but Castiel's definitely not the prey, here. He's smirking, blood burning in victory already, and turns around in time to see Dean standing in the doorway.

His eyes, black from lust and hazy, track over Castiel's body, hidden beneath his clothes, but Castiel thinks he might as well be naked for the amount of lust in Dean's gaze. It's almost too easy to gesture Dean to come forward, and it's even more astonishing when the boy _does_, stumbling like he's a dying man and Castiel is holding a giant meal right in front of him.

He falls to his knees in front of the older teen, and Castiel thinks that, yes, he likes this position very much.

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead glint off Dean's mask, making it sparkle, and Castiel can see his monochrome reflection in it. He reaches down with a gloved hand, petting over the side of Dean's face, before he presses his thumb against his bottom lip. Dean's lips part so easily, the boy moaning in barely restrained need, his hands coming forward to hook in Castiel's thighs, shaking slightly and grabbing too hard, and Castiel bucks his hips without thinking, biting out a low, terse 'Fuck'.

Dean smiles at that – smirks, even, the arrogant little bitch, and leans forward, mouthing at Castiel's erection through his slacks. Castiel breathes out the air he'd been holding, biting his lower lip and stifling another curse against the back of his mask. He would never get tired of this sight, but he has a different idea.

"Close," Castiel murmurs, smirking when Dean's eyes flash to his face – he can see, even behind the mask, Dean's brain working, trying to figure out who he is. Castiel smiles and lets him, moving his hands to his slacks and undoing the button and zip, freeing his hard cock and gripping it, stroking once.

He'd gone commando, because he'd had a plan. Dean, seeing that, smirks. "Thought you'd get lucky?" he purrs, and Castiel almost laughs because Dean's changing his voice – or maybe that's just the alcohol; his accent is slurred, definitely more pronounced than usual, and he's making it lower, raspy with lust. Or maybe that's just Castiel's influence.

He likes to think it is.

"Knew I would," Castiel replied tersely, fisting his cock again, and then lays the head against the seam of Dean's pretty, pretty lips. "Open up for me, baby."

And Dean just _takes_ him, with the prettiest moan Castiel thinks he's ever heard. One of Castiel's hands goes to the back of Dean's head, cupping his skull and making sure he's not going anywhere, but Dean certainly doesn't look like he wants to go anywhere, with his lips stretching so nicely around Castiel's cock, his hands tightening in the teen's thighs so he can't thrust forward or pull back, and Dean scoots forward on his knees, kneeling up, and Castiel groans loudly as Dean just continues to sink down, taking almost all of him in one go.

"Fuck, done this before, haven't you?" he growls, hand tightening in Dean's hair, the other thumbing along the corner of his mouth, where he can feel his cock disappearing into Dean's mouth. "You little _slut_." Dean just moans, sucking for all he's worth though it must hurt his jaw like a _bitch_, his tongue pressing and licking all along Castiel's cock like he's a fucking popsicle of Dean's favorite flavor, and he has Castiel panting before the older teen can even catch up, because _fuck_, this is _not_ Dean's first time doing this. No way in hell.

Castiel likes it when his hunches prove to be true.

Or maybe he's practiced. Maybe he's fantasized, sucking down fake cocks or fucking _bananas_, pretending that someone's owning his mouth and fucking his face. Castiel growls, thrusting forward so Dean has no choice but to take him deeper, and the boy chokes, trying to pull off, and Castiel lets him get as far as the head, not letting himself slip from Dean's mouth completely.

The boy's nostrils are flared, trying to breathe, and he's panting heavily, shoulders heaving under the black coat. Castiel allows himself a brief moment to admire, the play of light over the back of Dean's neck, down his throat, his broad shoulders hidden under, in Castiel's opinion, far too much material, flattering though it is. Dean is beautiful, and slowly, Castiel will unravel him.

First things come first, though.

He rocks his hips forward again, sliding deeper into the wet, warm cavern of Dean's mouth. _Fuck_, it's _burning_, the inside of his mouth, and Castiel wants nothing more than to slam all the way and make the boy choke on him until he's coming and Dean has no choice but to swallow.

He growls, pulling out, the stab of desire from that one image threatening to send him over the edge. Dean stares up at him, panting, his lips and chin slick with saliva and Castiel can't help rocking forward, making his lips even shinier with the little glob of precome, and Dean licks it away immediately, moaning softly at the taste.

"Like getting your mouth fucked, boy?" he asks, stopping himself just before saying the boy's name – that would ruin the entire game. Dean moans again, eyes wide, and nods. Castiel smirks behind his mask, and feeds Dean his cock once more, because he has a new plan, and he likes this plan very much.

He thinks Dean will, too.

He grips the back of Dean's head and growls low in his throat when Dean starts sucking him immediately, the blunt press of his teeth cushioned by his wet tongue, and Castiel thrusts forward until he feels himself hit the back of Dean's throat, making the younger teen choke and swallow to try and get rid of the sensation. He does it again, until Dean gets used to it (or maybe he doesn't, Castiel doesn't know, and if the way Dean is subtly rocking his erection against Castiel's leg, like a fucking _dog_, Dean doesn't much care) until his orgasm hits him.

He pulls out, fisting his cock, and aims the first splatter of come for Dean's mouth, marking that pretty, shiny mouth with his come before he moves up to the mask. The strands of fluid dull the shine of it, marring his reflection, and Castiel imagines he's actually coming on Dean's face, painting around those pretty eyes and across his nose, into his hair…

_"Fuck_," he growls, his comedown leaving him shaky and a little weak. Dean licks his lips, smiling in victory, and leans forward to lick at Castiel's spent cock, sending all kinds of painful aftershocks through the teen. The hard edges of his mask dig into Castiel's thigh and hip, and when Castiel presses forward with his leg, he feels Dean's erection pressing insistently into his slacks.

He smirks, tugging on Dean's hair. "Come up here, baby," he coaxes, making Dean stand on lust-wobbly legs, the younger teen rocking against his hand when Castiel cups him, a soft moan muffled against Castiel's neck.

"So fucking pretty," Castiel murmurs, petting through Dean's hair and smiling when Dean stifles a soft whimper against his neck, when Castiel squeezes his cock through his slacks – and it feels like Dean's got a lot of _repression_. Castiel's grin is positively feral.

Just then, the door to the classroom is being moved, and Dean tenses up, pulling away, but Castiel doesn't let him go. Instead, with a growl, he shoves Dean into the teacher's supply closet – the space is tight and shelved on all sides with books – and closes the door behind him. Outside, he can just hear the sounds of a couple, intending to use the classroom for just what he and Dean had been doing.

He can barely hear them, so he tunes them out. "Come here," he murmurs again, pulling Dean close.

Dean hesitates, staring at the door. "Shouldn't we -?"

Damn interruption. "No," Castiel growls in reply, squeezing Dean's cock again, and then he shoves the younger boy around, making his hands fly out so he can brace himself against a shelf. Immediately Dean's body goes lax, and Castiel can't help but think that it's _too fucking easy_, before he's on Dean. _God_, he just wants to mount him, rut until they both come and Dean can't even stand, but he's got more _finesse _than that.

At least, he likes to think he has.

He practically tears at Dean's slacks, wanting them _off, off, off_, and baring the man's ass to his greedy touch. Dean moans softly again, head hanging between his straining arms and tense shoulders, cock thick and hard. Castiel smiles at just how eager he is to be fucked, and gives a mental shove to his libido to get the hell on with it 'cause he sure as hell isn't waiting.

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small bottle of lube, and then takes off one glove, drizzling the lube onto his bare fingers. It's cold and he rubs his fingers together to warm it up a little, before he puts the lube back and flattens his other hand across Dean's cheek, wishing he could feel the smooth skin beneath his palm. But that's not part of the game.

Dean's burning – his body heat is making Castiel sweat, and the air in the closet seems stifling. He can barely breathe but that doesn't matter; Dean's panting, his shoulders heaving with every breath and sweat is breaking out along the back of his neck and in the dip of his spine. Castiel leans down, mouthing at the bottom knob of Dean's spine, where there's a tiny indent above his ass, his lube-slick hand smearing lubricant all over Dean's ass. The clean-up will be a bitch and Castiel wants that. He wants Dean to have the worst walk of shame in the world, because the boy's such a teasing little _slut_ and he deserves it.

At the first press of one slick finger into Dean, he's surprised at how little resistance he gets. Then, he growls, realizing what he's feeling. "Such a greedy little _whore_," he snarls, pushing one finger all the way in. "Get a little horny, hmm? Fuck yourself with a big fake cock before you came here?" He pauses, then, adding a second finger, and Dean just moans. "Or you already got yourself a man, and you're here, fucking me? Can't you get enough of a thick cock, you greedy slut?"

Dean moans more loudly, slowly losing the rest of his inhibitions as lust and need overtake every other thought – he's fucking back onto Castiel's fingers like a pro, like he's been doing this all his life, and it's all Castiel can do to grip his thigh and hold on. "Hey," Dean gasps, throwing his head back as Castiel strikes his prostate, his entire body locking up and quaking, "you knew you'd get lucky." He pauses again, catching his breath. "Some of us need to take care of ourselves."

"_Whore_," Castiel snarls, before adding a third finger. His cock has decided to finally join the party again, and he's hardening quickly against the back of Dean's thigh. Dean feels it and whimpers, pressing back. "Just can't fuckin' get enough, can you?"

"Please," Dean begs, head hanging down, "please. _God_, just do it already!"

_Straight my _ass_, _Castiel thinks again, before he yanks his fingers out, more roughly than he needed to, and tears open a condom, rolling it on. Dean's shifting eagerly, his fingers white-knuckled on the shelves, entire body tense and quivering with anticipation. When Castiel grabs his hips again, positioning himself to thrust into Dean's willing, hot body, the younger boy doesn't even hesitate in pushing back, taking all of Castiel in.

Though he felt loose around his fingers, Dean's body is so _tight_ and _wet_ and _hot_ on the inside, and Castiel groans, bending over the younger man, mounting him like a bitch in heat, his forehead pressed into the dip of Dean's spine. The younger man mewls desperately, hips pressing back and forth, trying to get Castiel to move inside of him, and the older teen growls, digging in more harshly with his hands so he'll leave nail marks on the ungloved side.

"Please," Dean gasps, "move."

"As you wish," Castiel replies, done with teasing for now, and thrusts all the way forward, as deep as he can get. Dean gasps, his body lighting up from the inside, tensing completely when Castiel strikes his prostate, so Castiel grins and does it again, and again, until Dean feels seconds away from jumping over the edge, his body taut like a drawn bow, entire _being_ set to vibrate under Castiel's capable hands.

Every time Castiel strikes Dean's prostate, the boy locks up so suffocatingly tightly, it's like being gripped in a vice, or fucking a virgin. _God_, it's fucking amazing, finally being inside of Dean after so much planning and making sure he'd read the whole situation right. Totally worth it.

"So fucking good, baby," Castiel growls, nipping at the back of Dean's neck as he fucks forward more harshly, chasing his orgasm.

"Don't -." Dean chokes, gasping when Castiel thrusts forward extra hard, until Dean feels he can feel it in his throat. His voice is low and fucked-out, his throat will be sore in the morning, and Castiel smirks in victory. "Don't call me that."

"What, don't like the name 'baby'?" Castiel taunts, smirking. "Alright. How about sweetheart?" Dean gasps again when Castiel pulls out, almost all the way, and then slams back in until Dean has to brace his shoulder against the shelves to avoid hitting his head. "Darlin'? _Slut_?" Dean _moans_, the _filthywrongness_ of it just hitting him hard. Castiel chuckles, biting out the word again. "Yeah, figured you'd like that."

He slams forward one last time, choking on a growl as he comes, filling up the condom. God, how he wishes he could have fucked Dean bare, but that's just one of those things – probably wouldn't let him without a condom.

When he pulls out, Dean still hasn't come, but he's making no move to get himself off – he's so obedient, staying still because Castiel hasn't told him to do anything yet, and probably too strung out to even think that far. He smirks, his gaze traveling down Dean's sweaty neck, his covered back, to his bare ass and fucked-open hole. He slides two fingers in easily, lube slicking the way and making Dean feel like a _girl_, and Dean's knees almost buckle. He groans loudly, full of need, when Castiel presses down on his prostate and won't let go.

"Please," Dean gasps again, pressing his cheek against the shelves, eyes closed, teeth bared, and his breath coming out in shaky, uneven gasps. "_Please,_ I need -."

"Now," Castiel whispers, pressing close to Dean again, his hand cupping Dean's throat and just slightly pressing with his thumb, stroking down the flexing tendon in Dean's neck. "Come for me, Dean. I want to see it."

Dean's eyes fly open, hearing his name, and he chokes, but can't hold how his entire body just _explodes_ in a mass of pleasure, unwinding from his tight coil as he comes harder than he ever has before, with two fingers up his ass from a guy who he doesn't know, doesn't recognize, and _fuck_, it should be so wrong, but all Dean can think is how _hot_ it is. He's burning up, white going off behind his eyes as he orgasms with a shout, and then suddenly there is a mouth on his. It's searing, burning hot, the tongue that invades his mouth is domineering and takes no prisoners and _fuck_, if Dean doesn't roll over and beg for more. He moans, not quite able to open his eyes, still lost in the aftershocks as the stranger kisses him thoroughly, leaving him breathless and wanting, his mouth so soft and warm.

He opens his eyes, hoping to get a glimpse of the stranger's face, but all he sees is black. He reaches up to tentatively feel, and realizes that whoever-it-was had covered the eye-holes with one hand so he couldn't see. When the hand is removed, the mask is back in place, the glove is back on, and the other teen looks completely unruffled.

Dean, he's sure, looks like a fucking mess.

He can only watch, blank and disoriented, and the masked man gives him a kind of mock salute, and he knows the bastard's smiling, even behind the mask. "It's almost midnight," he says, leaning forward, and Dean can _smell_ himself all over the other man. He quickly decides that he likes it. "I guess that's my cue to leave."

"Wait, what?" Dean demands, straightening, and makes a grab for the other teen, but he's already out the door and into the – now empty – classroom. Dean stumbles after him – he's not effective at chasing with his pants around his knees and his entire body very thoroughly fucked out, but he still tries. He catches himself on a desk, but the other teen is long gone.

Dean groans, thunking his head down on the desk, and sighs. Damn it. Now he'll never know.

* * *

><p>It's the night after the Masquerade Ball. Castiel likes these days best – everyone's hung-over and in a sour mood and Castiel, well, he's on top of the world.<p>

He passes by Dean's locker, since his isn't far away from it, and the younger teen is there. He's watching the crowd, and Castiel knows he's waiting for someone to give themselves away, give any indication that they, too, were involved in whatever happened last night.

Castiel walks right on by, humming 'Poker Face'. Dean doesn't get it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** If It's Not Rough, It Isn't Fun  
><strong>Author: <strong>highermagic  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>PairingsCharacters:** Dean/Castiel  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Highschool AU.  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> plotting, masked!Castiel  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>~5,500  
><strong>Summary: <strong>The Friday after that night, Dean still hasn't figured out the identity of the masked man who rocked his world. Now he and his friends are playing a prank on the drama department and Dean can't shake the feeling that he's stepping back onto the guy's turf, and he might not be too pleased to see him.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p>"<em>And after he's been hooked I'll play the one that's on his heart…woah woah -."<em>

"Dude." Dean is broken out of his little reverie by the sound of his teammate and best friend's voice – Michael is watching him with a raised eyebrow and an amused smirk and Dean finds himself flushing, but rolls his shoulders and tilts his chin up towards the other teenager. _"What _are you singing?"

"Fucked if I know," Dean mutters, real irritation coloring his voice – damn song had been stuck in his head for days now and he can't even remember how it got there. He doesn't even _know _the damn song, let alone who sings it and it's really been getting on his nerves. "Sam must've been playing chick music again – can't get the damn thing outta my head."

"Whatever." A roll of his pale green eyes, the subject forgotten, and Dean slams shut his locker door after putting the rest of his books back – it's a fucking Friday, he's not going to worry about protecting his rep today. "Gabe, Crowley and I are thinkin' of pulling that prank on the drama department this weekend. You in?"

Unbidden, a flash of a white-and-black dramatic mask swirls in Dean's mind's eye and he blinks, flushing a darker color, his fists clenching just slightly at the feeling of suit cloth under his fingertips, the hot bite of a claiming kiss against his mouth – a dirty-rough voice growling in his ear, calling him names, ordering him around, a body fucking him into complete bliss.

He swallows, realizes Michael's still waiting for his answer. "Yeah, assumin' I got nothin' else goin' on," he says, straightening. So much for letting himself relax – the prank involves deep infiltration of the theatre studio's backstage area, and Dean shivers, feeling like somehow he's encroaching on someone else's turf.

Not that that ever bothered him before, but one does tend to have a certain change of outlook when a certain person who _belongs_ in that turf can push him around, call him _boy _and fuck him until he can't think straight.

And knew his name.

It has been exactly four days since that night. Why the school scheduled that damn ball on a Monday night Dean will never know, but it had turned out to be the best night of Dean's life. He'd had fun, danced, drank, and then…

_God._

He still hasn't figured out who it was. It has to be someone at the school because it was a closed event, and the idea that someone would specifically sneak in just to fuck him from another school sent all sorts of creeped-out shivers up his spine. If anyone knows anything, though, they sure as Hell aren't giving themselves away. Dean feels like he's been playing a very complex and subtle game of cat and mouse, only this cat has invisible paws and doesn't care if Dean tries to run or not.

"Fuck that, man, I'm pickin' you up tonight. Be ready." Michael turns away and before Dean can protest, there's the harsh thump of something hitting his shoulder, and he turns around to see another kid stumbling.

"Watch it!" he mutters, reaching out a hand to steady the kid anyway – Dean's got some muscle on him and even a glancing hit can be enough to knock someone over. Especially this kid, who looks like he'd be one hundred-ten pounds dripping wet, with a shock of jet black hair and the brightest blue eyes Dean thinks he's ever seen.

"Sorry!" the kid says, grinning wide and flushing a little, a pretty pink stain along his cheeks. Dean licks his lips without thinking about his, fingers trailing down the other boy's arm instead of just letting go once he was sure he wouldn't fall over. "Wasn't looking where I was going. Sorry!" And then he's backing away, still smiling in that embarrassed way, and Dean licks his lips again.

God damn it.

Castiel's smile disappears when he turns back around, fingers digging in tight to his books. So, Dean will be in the auditorium tonight. With his friends, but it's easy enough to isolate someone in the mess of backstage and changing rooms the school is blessed with. Yes, shouldn't be trouble at all.

He smirks to himself as he walks out of the front doors of the school, towards his car and slips inside, ready to drive home and get himself ready. The way Dean had looked at him, as though seeing him for the first time – perhaps it was the first time all over again for Dean. A shock to his system had left him raw, reborn, perfect for the taking.

And Castiel intends to do just that; Dean is a lump of clay ready to be molded to Castiel's will, and he can't wait.

* * *

><p>He hears Michael's car horn outside at eight at night, and takes a deep breath to steel himself. He feels shaky, lightheaded almost and his heart is beating a mile a minute. He doesn't know why – knows the man from that night probably doesn't haunt the damn place but, God damn it, he feels like a ghost to Dean. Appearing to play some kinky mind trick on Dean and then disappearing when he's done.<p>

Dean wants more than anything in the world to find out who that man was. His body _burns_ with the desire to know, to have, to take that again. Someone who's willing to just _own _him, treat him like he might break but they don't fucking care either way – someone who can wring Dean's pleasure from his very soul, make his body _sing_. It was the best sex of Dean's life and he gets a little flare of heat up his spine just thinking about it.

That sort of connection isn't something he wants to have just once. It's just getting there that's making him so messed up.

"Get the lead outta your ass, Winchester!" Michael yells as Dean leaves his house, running to the car and getting in. Gabriel is next to him in the back seat, Crowley up front, and he slams the door behind him as Michael peels away from his house. He feels their eyes on him and flushes, sinking down in the seat a little further, shoving his backpack into the foot well.

"What's crawled up your ass and died?" Crowley snipes, noting the silence coming from the youngest in their group, and Dean fixes a glare at him. "We interrupt your wanking time?"

"Go fuck yourself, Crowley," Dean snaps back, but is smiling now – easy banter, this he can deal with, as the tension in the car unravels and they all sink back into their usual hatred of each other. He leans forward between the two front seats and grins at the distasteful look Crowley puts on, pretending to brush Dean's presence off his shoulder. "I ain't seen that many people fallin' over themselves to get a piece of you."

"That reminds me," Crowley says, seemingly ignoring Dean's last retort and the younger boy falls back, grinning and fist bumping Gabriel. "A little birdy told me you were seen dancing with a hot little thing at the ball on Monday."

"You _went _to that thing?" Michael asks, glancing in the rear-view mirror and snorting. "Dude."

"Good thing I did," Dean says, maybe a little too loudly. That shaky feeling is coming back to him – stupid as it seems, he hadn't realized then how public that must have been, him dancing with the other guy, whoever it was. He can only hope that people assume it was a girl or no one cared enough to pay attention. "She was a demon, Mike, best fuckin' blowjob mouth on her in school, I swear."

"Other than yours," Michael snaps back with a laugh, earning a hit to the back of his head.

There is a pause. "I heard that you were seen with a guy," Gabriel says after a moment, almost too quietly to hear, but Crowley has _bat _hearing when it comes to gossip, and Dean speaks just a moment too slow for Dean to protect or cover it up.

"What?!"

"Oh, how delicious," Crowley says, turning around and fixing Dean with a sly smile. The boy is blushing, looking more scared than shocked. "A _male, _Winchester, your beer-goggles must have been absolutely blinding."

"A _guy_?" Michael asks, getting the picture, and he sounds like he's choking, but he doesn't sound angry or shocked or anything – he sounds like he's just heard the best fucking joke in his life. "You got – Dean, you got sucked off by a fucking _guy, _didn't you?"

"I…" Dean can't think of a single damn thing to say, but they're all looking at him like he's the funniest fucking thing they've ever seen and maybe, _maybe _, he can own it. He coughs. "Whatever, if any of you had done it you'd be singing fuckin' praises too."

Michael's still laughing, almost to the point where Dean's worried if he can still drive, and Crowley's joining in and not one of them looking like they're judging him. Gabriel's just smirking and shaking his head and he's looking at Dean in a way that Dean maybe thinks he's totally been there too which is why he's giving him the least amount of shit.

They don't need to know that it was _him _on his knees, begging to do the sucking, begging to be fucked. Whatever. Doesn't matter. He's got this.

* * *

><p>Everything is set and ready. He can hear them coming a mile off – for something that will get them into trouble, they're not being very quiet about it. Maybe they don't care – maybe they can't care, but Castiel is relying on that. He loosely tangles his fingers with each other, gloved hands sliding easily along each other before he braces himself against the railing on the bridge suspended over the stage from the flies. There is only one real way in worth considering, and that is from the top door at the back of the auditorium. He will be able to see them coming a long way off, before they can see him.<p>

He hears them stumbling around the corridor outside, and leaves the bridge in time for them to switch on the lights.

Time to play.

"Dude, shut up!" Michael hisses as he hauls in a gasoline container full of glue and firecrackers (how he expects that one to work Dean will never know, but whatever, he's not really here for the pranking part of the night.

"You shut up," Gabriel bites back, running down the main aisle to the stage and climbing onto it. "And hurry up, I think I saw Principle Adler's lights still on."

"Fuck," Crowley hisses. "He's meant to be vacationing this week."

"Really?" Dean asks, helping to lift more containers filled with things that, by the smell, Dean doesn't really want to know what's in them, and looking around. "Why is he here then?"

"Fucked if I know, dude has no life," Michael replies with a roll of his shoulders. "Okay, Dean, you stand guard. Let's get this shit done and be outta here." They all disappear into the darkness behind the stage, leaving Dean alone with no one but himself for company, and he sighs, taking the steps back up to the top two at a time until he reaches the door, and cracks it open to look down the corridor. There isn't anyone – there wouldn't be. Even if the Principle had seen their car, the drama department is pretty much as far away as they can physically get from his office and he's too far away to hear anything. Their real worry is a janitor might come along or something.

Dean swallows a little, feeling guilty. Michael's prank will probably be more messy than anything else. He shakes the thought off – not his problem.

"You look lonely."

Dean freezes, whirling around at the familiar voice, and his eyes widen when he sees the mask that has been haunting the back of his mind since that night. "Holy -." A gloved hand presses over his mouth, and the man cocks his head to one side. Dean can tell that he's smiling even without seeing his face.

"Hush now," the voice says, slightly muffled as fingers tighten over Dean's mouth, and the man presses closer. "What brings you here this time of night?"

Dean's absolutely frozen, can't talk anyway behind the smooth stretch of black material over his mouth – he's just staring, wide-eyed and almost pinned back against the door. He can see a flash of blue in the light, just peeking out of the slits of the mask, when the man turns his head.

There's the sound of one of the gasoline containers falling, then a muffled curse from Michael and Gabriel, and the masked man turns his head, taking a step away from Dean. "It looks like your friends are returning," he says, all smooth growl and Dean feels his _knees_ shiver with the urge to give out. He wants more than anything in his life, for this man to take him away and find some dark, dirty corner and he just _wants_, more than anything, to know who this man is.

The masked man takes another step back and without thinking Dean's following, reaching out to try and grab him and pull him back. "Wait!" he demands, more breathless and pleading than he had meant to sound, but it makes the man stop. "Who _are_ you?"

He can _hear_ the bastard smirking. "Dean," he says with a sigh, shaking his head. "I like this game. Why would I stop playing?"

"What are you hiding from?" Dean demands, taking another step forward, glaring into the mask's eyes, growling at the defiant tilt of the shorter man's chin. "You…you think it's just _okay _to put on a mask and assume no one will find you? That you can do anything you want?"

"I don't think you're the person to lecture me on _hiding_, Mister Winchester," the man replies, that growl coming back full-force like a wolf cornering prey, and Dean feels his entire body shiver as he takes a step forward, hand flying out and curling around Dean's throat to press him back. The material of his glove feels smooth and soft against Dean's skin, saddle of his thumb and forefinger fitting perfectly in the curve below his larynx, and the hold is just hard enough to be threatening but Dean doesn't feel afraid. Knows, though he has no reason to, that this man won't hurt him. Actually trusts him, if you can believe it. "You, with all your bravado and reputation. I could _destroy_ you with a word or a well-placed camera. I can bring you to your knees –" The hand releases Dean, strokes up the side of his face as the man presses closer, his voice softening, "with nothing more than a touch."

God help him, Dean feels like his heart is going to leap out of his throat, and he's hard, and he wants so badly, his fingers flexing by his sides and it feels like he can't fucking move.

"Why?" he has to ask, voice coming out shaky and weak. "Why all this? Why me?"

Just then, Michael and Gabriel and Crowley come back from backstage, and whatever the man might have said was lost. Dean can _hear _him smiling again. "Sorry, sweetheart," he says, leaning in close and letting his fingers trail over Dean's cheek before he's pulling away, black clothes helping him blend with the darkness of the auditorium. "Some other time, maybe."

"Dude!" He's gone, then, disappeared just like that, and Dean can't help but think that maybe this is some fucked-up hallucination that he can't shake. "You ready? Let's get the hell outta here!"

Dean follows Michael, Gabriel and Crowley as they run out of the auditorium and back to Michael's car, piling in and peeling away. They're laughing, telling each other what badasses they are and how much this is going to suck for Miss Barnes, the dramatic arts professor, but Dean is numb to their conversation – his body feels like it's on fire, and he can't shake the feeling that he's _still _being watched, though that's impossible.

When he gets home there is a piece of paper taped to his front door addressed to him and, with shaking hands, he opens it.

_Tomorrow night, the auditorium, ten._

That's all it says, and Dean turns the paper around, front and back, just to be sure. "He was…" His hands are shaking again. "Fuck. _Fuck_."

He has to know who this guy is. He _has_ to. His head feels like it's one fire and he trembles with the idea of finally learning the man's identity, or at least hearing the growl of his voice again, feeling the hard muscle and hidden strength in his hands as he pins Dean to the wall and fucks him senseless. He _needs_ to know. He _needs_ to.

* * *

><p>It's Saturday night and the school is a ghost town. It would be at this time of night – Dean's pretty sure even the janitors have locked up and left behind he has to climb through the shaky window on the second floor outside of the arts department, over the skips behind the back of the school. It's shaky work but he manages to jiggle the lock open and slip inside.<p>

When he enters, the auditorium looks empty, and he frowns, checking his watch. Alright, so he is technically early by a couple of minutes, but he'd never figured that the guy would be so punctual. He sighs, trotting down the middle aisle, content to wait on the stage for the mystery man to show up. Besides, sitting down will mean his legs don't have to support him and that's good because he feels like he's about to collapse.

As soon as he sits down he's almost blinded by a spotlight blinking on, and flinches, raising his hand to block out the light. "What the hell?" he yells out, a little shiver running up his spine when he realizes that the man is there.

"Hello, Dean." The man's voice comes on over a microphone so Dean's can't tell where he is, and the younger man gets to his feet, looking around and blinking at his eyes adjust to the bright light. "So kind of you to honor my note. And early to boot. You must be an eager little thing."

"Where are you?" Dean demands, turning around to try and get his bearing, see if the man is lurking in the wings of the stage or in the seats. His eyes finally adjust to the spotlight and he looks up, sees the edges of shoes in the middle aisle of the auditorium and his eyes widen.

"I see you've found me." Then, the microphone gets switched off and Dean hears a thump as it is tossed to the side. "Did you miss me, Dean?"

"How do you even know my name?" Dean demands, stepping closer to the edge of the stage. He can see a little better, now, the bottom of the man's slacks and a shock of hair on his head, and he realizes with a shaft of excitement that he must not be wearing the mask, relying on the darkness to conceal himself.

"We share a class," the man replies, taking a step down. "I see you every day, Dean Winchester – every single day, the way you flirt with all the girls but never ask them out or take them hope." Another step, a soft sigh then as the man tilts his head. "The way you keep looking at the guys when you think no one can see. You are good at hiding, Dean."

Dean is silent as those words sink in, and he feels himself flush, embarrassed and horrified. So he knows – well, of course he knows – but apparently Dean hasn't been as subtle as he had hoped. It's not like he's ashamed, he just…hangs out with the kinds of people who might be. Would treat him different. Call him a fag and actually mean it and use it with the intent to hurt him.

"Not good enough," he murmurs, looking down now as the man takes another step forward.

"Don't sell yourself short," he says. "I'm very good at watching."

"Yeah," Dean replies, snorting and forcing a smirk to his face. "You're a real Grade-A perv, you know that?"

"I don't hide what I am," comes the reply.

"Says the man in a mask."

There is a pause, then, and Dean has a brief moment to feel like he's won, before something moves – a small device with a little red dot on the top, blinking in the light, and then the spotlight shuts off with a click and the device joins the microphone on the floor. Dean can't see a damn thing. But he can hear – hear the soft footsteps approaching the stage, hear the man when he climbs up onto it and Dean reaches out, helping him up and helping the man find him. Then there is a hand in his hair – ungloved, callus-rough against his scalp – nails biting down and tugging at his hair to tilt his head forward, force their mouths together. The kiss is rough but unhurried – this man has nowhere to be now and Dean shivers with the knowledge that they have all the time in the world and this man is probably going to do his damnedest to take it.

Dean moans softly, arching his body into the lean muscle of the smaller man's, his own hands wrapping around the man's shoulders. It feels weird, nails digging into a t-shirt and slacks where he remembers a suit and the smooth slide of gloves against his skin. Weird but so nice too, like this man is more human, and Dean can run his fingers through his hair and taste his mouth and feel the warm pants of breath against his neck as they rut together.

His hair is soft, thick and sleek between his fingers as he grabs at the man's head and tugs back, growls his own demands against the man's lips. He feels a low rumble against his chest, realizes it's coming from the other man, before there is a forearm against his chest, a leg around the back of his and a blow to his shoulder that sends them both crashing down, the stranger between Dean's legs and over him, winding him so that Dean can't move.

"Naughty," the man chides, claiming another kiss from Dean's panting mouth, before he rolls Dean over, forcing him down on his chest and knees to the floor. "Poor baby, you really must have missed me when I was gone," he whispers, voice a low snarl in Dean's ear and it makes the younger boy shudder, his legs spreading as he feels deft, knowing fingers tease at the button and zip of his jeans, undoing them slowly and peeling his clothes just far enough to get them out of the way.

That thought – the thought that he isn't even free himself yet, just enough of him bared for the mystery man to use him – sends a dirty, _hot _little thrill through Dean, who just makes a soft sound of assent and spreads his legs wider.

"Please," he whispers, forgetting his anger, forgetting his desire to know who this man is, overwhelmed with just the urge to _have_, yes, so close and it feels like it's been forever but he just can't _care_ anymore. He hears a bottle open and close and then there is a finger, cold and slick with lube, pressing against his ass, pushing inside without preamble and Dean hisses, clenching up, shivering, and this is really happening again.

"Tighter this time," the man notes and Dean flushes, ducking his head away. "Hoping for a repeat performance?"

Dean doesn't answer – merely circles his hips and forces them back, forces the finger deeper inside of him, hissing when it curls to drag along his insides. Feel so damn good already and they haven't even started yet, and Dean's trembling and there's sweat dampening his t-shirt to his back.

"So eager," the man whispers, adding another finger inside of Dean, twisting and scissoring them to stretch Dean further until the boy lets out a soft little moan, and then a third, tight grip of Dean sucking him in eagerly, his body so fucking desperate for it it's a wonder he's made it this long. "Little slut."

Dean moans, body clenching tight when the fingers withdraw. "_Please_," he begs, stretching his arms out above is head and arching back until he feels the promising bulge of the man's arousal against his ass. He's still clothed, naked skin brushing against the material of his pants and Dean hopes with a little savage growl that he gets lube all over the front of them and has just as bad of a walk of shame as Dean will have.

Then, he hears another zip and the ruffling of clothing and then there's _pressure_ – _finally_ – and Dean groans, forehead resting against the smooth surface of the stage as the man presses into him, blunt head of his cock forcing Dean's body to stretch and part around him, sealing tight around the flared head and sucking him in. _Yes_ – every part of Dean is sighing in satisfaction and he's pushing back, forcing the man in faster than he would have normally let it go, but damn it all he _needs_, needs this like fucking air.

"_Fuck_," the man groans, hands clenching tight around Dean's hips and Dean can feel the weight of him pressed against his back, hair tickling the back of his neck and jut of his nose digging against Dean's spine, the warmth of his heavy and shaky breath against Dean's sweat-dampened shirt. God it feels good, knowing he's affected this man the same way, and he deliberately clenches tight around the stranger, forcing another shudder and soft groan out of him, before the man is pulling back and rutting forward again, deep – as deep as he can go – fat weight of his cock dragging along Dean's insides by far the best Goddamned feeling in the world.

"Come on," Dean snarls when he does nothing but shallow, short little thrusts – they feel good, yes, but Dean knows the power in this man, the grip of his hands on Dean's shoulders and the pistoning of his hips like he's trying to fuck the life out of Dean. "Come _on_, is that all you got?"

The man _snarls_ at him, jaws opening to lock around the closest part of Dean he can bite – the meat of his shoulder, tense from bracing himself, and he just goes _crazy_ – feels like the thrusts are reaching his throat, and the sharp point of pain makes Dean's body spasm, clench up suffocatingly tightly around the man as he thrusts forward, hard enough that even Dean's legs can't support him and he has to give up, flattening himself to the floor with only his hips raised for better access, and the man is still going and _fuck_, his cock isn't getting any friction aside from the blunt pressure of the floor and the inside of his underwear but it feels so fucking good he might not need anything and -.

"Dean." The voice snaps him back to the present, and Dean gives a short, bitten-back moan behind clenched teeth. "Do it. Come."

That's all it takes – fuck, Dean's pretty sure all this guy could tell him in the middle of a crowded street and he would be helpless to obey – as Dean locks up around him and _screams_. "_Fuck_!" It's intense, hitting him right between the eyes and ripped out of his entire body – vaguely he's aware of the man stilling behind him, gritting out a harsh profanity against the back of his neck and another sharp pain as he bites again, stifling his moan against Dean's flesh. It's warm and wet on the inside – he didn't wear a condom this time and Dean wonders why the sudden change – the lack of protection, the lack of a mask. Of anything. But it's so much more _satisfying_, hearing the soft, sated moan of the man on top of him without the barrier of a mask, and Dean lifts on hand, carding it through his sweaty hair as he comes down, still trembling from the aftershocks of such an intense orgasm.

When the man is done, he pulls out slowly – gently, not wanting to hurt Dean on the exit – but he doesn't go far. Dean doesn't hear him leave, merely put his clothes back on properly, and he heaves a tired breath, shoving himself up to his knees.

"Will you ever tell me?" he asks, wiping a hand across his face and turning around, knowing somehow that the man is still standing behind him, and then there is a hand, fingers loosely cupping his chin and tilting his face up, and the man kneels down in front of him.

He sighs, breath wafting over Dean's face, and presses a chaste kiss to the younger teen's forehead. "I'll see you on Monday, Dean," he says, before he leaves the stage and walks back up the middle aisle, taking the remote and microphone with him. As the door opens and closes at the top, the lights flicker on, so Dean will be able to clothe himself and make his way out without tripping over or killing himself.

"Damn it," he mutters, settling back down on his toes and wiping a hand over his face again. God fucking _damn it._

* * *

><p>Monday morning and Dean feels like a permanent rain cloud has settled over his head. He doesn't want to keep going around like this, jumping at every male that passes him by, wondering if they're <em>him<em>, and wondering if they'll give themselves away – tired of looking into every word or gesture around him, feeling like everyone is talking about him. Maybe they can see the bruises bitten into his back, or smell the come on him, or be able to tell that he got fucked in the ass and that's why he can't walk straight.

He's at his locker, finishes taking the books out he'll need, stuffing them into his backpack and shouldering it, when it suddenly closes, making him jump. It's that kid from before who had knocked into him, with bright sky-blue eyes and messy black hair, but he's not smiling this time and Dean can't think of a single time he _hasn't_ seen the kid smiling, when he's noticing him there at all.

"Um, hey," he says, unable to meet the kid's focused expression for more than a second before he looks down at the ground, scratching the back of his head.

"That song you've had stuck in your head?" the kid – Dean thinks his name is Castiel or Cassiel or something like that – says, one corner of his mouth tilting up slightly. "It's called 'Poker Face'. I thought it suited the mask you were wearing that night. It's been stuck in my head too."

It takes a second for his words to sink in. "You…?" The kid grins wider, a predatory kind of smile that makes Dean shiver, and he turns around, unable to believe it. "_You?"_

"You seem shocked, Dean," the kid replies, smiling wide and cocking his head to one side. "I could slam you up against these lockers right now and prove it. I think by now you've memorized the feeling of my cock fucking you senseless."

"Jesus -." And then Castiel is kissing him – slamming him up against his locker and owning his mouth and Jesus _fuck_, that is definitely him. No one else could own Dean is such a way, so casually, like he's doing something as simple as collecting the morning paper, teeth biting sharply, tongue sliding in like he owns Dean's mouth and he fucking does. With his hand in Dean's hair, tugging back, one thigh slotting in easily between Dean's own legs – he fucking _owns_ Dean.

"I'm done wearing a mask, Dean," Castiel rasps against his jaw when he pulls away, and Dean can feel eyes on him but Castiel doesn't seem to give a rat's ass and if he doesn't then fuck it. One hand strokes down the side of his face, hot and gentle at the same time and Dean finds himself leaning into the touch before he can help himself. "Are you?"

Dean swallows, and then all he can do is nod, but it's worth it for the pleased, _proud_ look on Castiel's face, and he leans in for another kiss – this one more chaste but no less passionate, one of Dean's arms wrapping around Castiel's waist and tugging him close.

Dean is a little late for first period. And second period. And third – and then by that point he kind of decides to fuck the rest of the day. So does Castiel.

Who wants to bet that was just coincidence.


End file.
